


Shakespeare in the Kitchen

by CrimeAlley1048



Category: Batfamily - Fandom, Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 17:04:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6667045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimeAlley1048/pseuds/CrimeAlley1048
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The adventures of young Dick and Alfred</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shakespeare in the Kitchen

“And where exactly did you find that?”

“It was under a floorboard in the study.” Dick settled cross-legged on top of the counter, book in his lap. “Looked like it had been there a while.”

He liked exploring the Manor— there were so many rooms, so many doorways, and so many _things_ , all set in their places like they’d been there a thousand years and didn’t plan on moving. He wasn’t used to that. Sometimes he got lost in the twisting hallways, so he was drawing himself a map and letting himself pretend that he was a pirate searching for treasure in a ruin by the sea. It was a silly game, sure, but it kept his mind off…

Well, whatever he didn’t want to think about.

Anyway, if he looked closely enough, sometimes he did find treasure, like a handful of pewter soldiers in an abandoned drawer, or stacks of yellowed sketches in the attics, or a leather-bound book under the study floor. He’d gotten most of the dust off of it by now.

Alfred turned from the loaf of bread he was cutting into slices, nodding. “I imagine. I gave him that copy on his eleventh birthday.”

“Isn’t eleven too young for Shakespeare?” Dick asked, tracing the letters on the spine. M-a-c-b-e-t-h. _Macbeth._ Dangerous word.

Alfred looked mildly offended. “It’s never too young for Shakespeare. Besides, you seem to be doing just fine.”

“But there are bits I don’t understand.”

“Like what?”

“Like the Porter’s monologue.”

“Well I would hope not.”

“Why?”

“When you’re older.” Alfred set aside his cutting board. “That part’s not important. The real story is regicide, ambition….” He raised an eyebrow in Dick’s direction. “Ghostly visions.”

Alfred stepped away from the counters and struck a pose, knife held above his head. “Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? Or art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?” 

He turned and offered his knife handle-first to Dick, gesturing upwards, towards the enormous set of shelves above the sink. Dick climbed inside (he was small enough to fit) and carefully dangled the ghostly dagger above Alfred’s head, the way it was meant to be. Alfred stepped back in mock horror, drawing a second knife from his block.

“I see thee yet, in form as palpable as this which now I draw. Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going; and such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, or else worth all the rest; I see thee still, and on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, which was not so before.” He winked at Dick and made to set his knife aside.

“Keep going!” It was a good performance, and Dick was enjoying himself. He leaned out of his cabinet, pleading. “Please?”

Alfred checked his watch. “Perhaps we should skip to the end,” he decided. “If you would be so kind as to find us a bell?”

Dick pulled an empty pot from the shelf beneath him and hit it with the hilt of his knife— it was less a _bong_ than a loud _CLANG,_ but Alfred didn’t seem to mind. He plucked a dishtowel from the hook and wrapped it dramatically around his shoulders, shoving his blade into the pocket of his apron.

“I go,” he declared. “And it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan; for it is the knell that summons the to heaven… or to hell.” He finished in a low growl, staring across the kitchen floor. Dick meant to tell him how great he was, but before he could say anything, there was loud applause from the other end of the room— Bruce, standing in the doorway. Alfred took a bow. 

“Just in time for dinner,” he told him.

“Just in time to see you hand an eight year old a knife.”

“You, Sir,” said Alfred, rolling his eyes, “have no grounds to criticize on that point.” 

“Fair enough.” Bruce raised an arm to help Dick down from his shelf while Alfred scraped his discarded loaf of bread onto a serving platter. 

“Indeed,” he told them. “Anyway. Dinner is served.”

**Author's Note:**

> Alfred's soliloquy is from William Shakespeare's Macbeth: Act II, Scene I


End file.
